Too Little, Too Late
by DrayMiaOnly
Summary: Third in my "Separation" Verse. "Dean wants to believe him. He wants to help him, he wants them to find common ground, start from there and build their relationship again... But, even though he can't pinpoint what it is, something's holding him back."


**A/N:** The third and final part of the trilogy that started with **"97 Degrees Of Separation"** to continue with **"Dearly... Devoted"** and ends... without casualties but with mutual understanding...  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> I don't own Supernatural or 'Fire of Unknown Origin' by Blue Öyster Cult.  
><strong>Full Title:<strong> Too Little, Too Late (Would Never Apply To Us)  
><strong>Story Details:<strong> Sam's desperate enough to do anything for Dean's forgiveness, Dean's finally had enough of his brother leaving everytime things turn a little too hard... and Bobby is charging up his shotgun -these boys will surely drive him mad.  
><strong>Warnings for:<strong> bad language. some violence. angst like whoa! hints of Wincest.

* * *

><p><span>Narrator's POV<span>

Then...

_"You're the best big brother in the whole damn world."_

_"No 'm not, I just..." love you with my whole damn soul._

_"I never really fit anywhere, in my entire life. I guess... just for once, I want to feel like I belong somewhere; like I've found my place in the world."_

_"Your place in the motherfuckin' world? Whad'you think my side was made for Sam? Never fit anywhere, huh? You're the most ungreatful little shit ever! And I'm sick and tired of listening to how miserable you've been growing up! Well I was happy while I was raising you, Sam, but I guess I'm and idiot- so just spare me and at least don't rub it in my face, okay? Just, fuck you, Sam. Fuck you very much."_

Now...

It's been three weeks, since Dean last spoke to him, and Sam isn't embarrassed to admit he's getting a tad hysterical. His days and nights have become one endless call; that is never answered. And with each beep, a small part of him gets lost in a jumble of desperation.

Several states away, in a small town in Idaho, Dean is becoming more and more agitated by the second. His phone has been blowing up with Sam calling, but Dad's still MIA and Dean can't do the most logical thing... throw it against a wall.

Bobby sees him fuming, and doesn't know whether to console or knock some sense into him, preferably with his trusty shotgun. He had been pushed through his limit, and done something rather drastic, when Dean had gotten so reeled up he had started taking it out on Bobby's kitchenware -and yes, those blue, red and yellow cups (how Dean managed to crack his _plastic_ cups is beyond him) had been in fact a set! Bobby likes some color around his mornin' coffee -anybody got a problem with that? Didn't think so.

So, yeah, his house's security had been at stake, and in order to save his home from the loose bull- err, the whacked- dammit, _Dean_; yep, that's the one- Bobby had been forced to let the younger hunter drag him on a gig on the other side of the world; also known as Idaho.

Specifically in Middleton, where several people had reportedly seen... (brace yourself...) _pixies_. Yes, you've read correctly. No, your eyes are fine, it's Dean who's messed up. Bobby swears if Winchesters (damn them all by the by) don't stop dragging him in the middle of their conflicted issues he's gonna start shooting some sense into them.

"That little fancy toy of yours ain't got a 'mute' button?" he asks when he starts to feel nausea after hearing 'Fire of Unknown Origin' for the nth time.

Dean glares and grunts that it's not a fuckin' tv remote.

"Then answer the damn thing! Your brother is as stubborn as kids can get; he won't stop, unless you reply," Bobby says, throwing his hands in the air exasperated.

Dean notices that he doesn't say Sam's name. After Dean broke several glasses and beer bottles, and wrecked most of the useless cars in Bobby's salvage-yard, the old man got the hint and started referring to the younger Winchester as "S-ah, the tall one."

Dean kind of appreciates it, but he also kind of hates how weak it makes him feel, that the mere mention of Sam's name is enough to cause him a crave to destroy something.

"He doesn't deserve getting any answers!" he snaps, his arms twiching and his eyes scaning the room for something breakable, in case Bobby's tongue slips. He fixes his gaze on the autrocity on top of the nightstand that supposedly is a lamp.

"Ma' sanity doesn't deserve this either, boy! I'm an old man, and I won't spent ma' last years in a nut house 'cause of you Winchesters! Quit being melodramatic and talk to your brother! Got it?" the older man preaches, adjusting his trucker cap, before marching out the door.

Dean glares at the door; glares at his phone, which by the way has yet to stop ringing; glares at the caricature of a lamp on top of the nightstand.

An irrational thought that Bobby, who is the only one left on the, disturbingly short, list of people Dean hasn't failed, will also abandon him, as Dad and Sam did -just because Dean is too damn proud to answer a damn phone call- hits Dean so suddenly he wavers and has to reach to hold himself up by grabbing the back of a chair. And it's as much as he can take- and enough is enough- and no, not Bobby too! And he'll loose face, which sounds so juvinile it makes Dean laugh -a bit too manically for it to be considered as a joyful laugh, but still he _has_ to pick up! He can panic later about the fact that he's turning into an insecure 13 year old girl- right now, damn his pride to hell, he can't loose Bobby too!

He growls, snatches the ugly imitation of a lamp, throws it on the floor with as much force as he can master, and after it breaks with a gratifying thud, he grabs his phone.

"What?" Dean sneers at the speaker.

And- finally! Back at Palo Alto, Sam can breathe again! But oh no, no; Sam can't feel relief yet, because he knows Dean only answered because he can't afford to turn off his phone. Not with Dad missing.

"Hey," Sam sort of whimpers back, lamely.

"What do you think you're doing, Sam? Stop calling; you keep the line busy! What if Dad's trying to communicate with me?" Dean demands in his strict little-sholdier tone.

"He hasn't called yet, huh?" Sam stupidly inquires, knowing that if Dad had called, silent treatment or not, Dean would have notified him.

"No, you dimshit," is Dean's curt reply.

"Oh, o-okay," Sam eloquently stammers.

"Is that the _only_ reason you called?" Dean asks warily, a distinct undertone of caution evident in his tone.

"No, I called because..." Sam suddenly wonders if he has the courage to continue. Actually _saying_ the words will make them real; and somehow he knows that all of the actions in the world wouldn't be able to convey his true feelings like those three simple words could. Dean deserves to hear them, even if it does take them weeks or months to get back to where they were before.

When Sam begins to falter and falls silent, Dean resigns himself to the possibility Sam's going to stay away for a very long time. But that's good, cause Dean doesn't want him to come back if it's just out of some obligation to Dad. "Don't, Sam. You don't have to say anything. If you truly don't have anything else-"

"I called because I'm so sorry I can't even begin to describe how much, and, even though I know it's too soon, someday I'd like to come home and start over," Sam cuts him in a rush.

Dean blinks, hears the words again inside his head, nods, remembers Sam can't see him and... "Then come," he says simply, trying to keep his voice at a normal tone.

"If you want," Sam whispers back with relief, "I can be there by the end of the week."

"No," Dean protests immediately, "Come tomorrow."

"If you need time-"

"We've wasted enough," Dean counters firmly, "It's late now, but tomorrow, you're going to pack your things, you're going to take the first bus for Idaho, and you're coming home," he tells Sam with a tone of finality.

"No really, I'll understand if you need some space. What I said was stupid and mean- I didn't mean it. I don't know what got into me-"

"Sam you're rambling, dude," Dean scolds mildly.

"Yeah, I- sorry," Sam amends.

"It's okay. Now that you want to come home, we'll figure it all out," Dean assures him.

"Are you sure? Really I don't mind waiting for you to cool off a bit..." Sam trails off, as his voice is starting to sound more and more reluctant.

"I mean it, Sam," Dean almost orders, trying to maintain his resolute stance and strict tone, "You're coming home."

"I want to," Sam replies softly, "But there's so much that we have to talk about, so much that we have to decide, to work through..."

"We will," Dean promises, knowing Sam's right, but confident for the first time in many years that he would have the sense and drive to actually make something between them work, "One step at a time. Just _come home._"

"Okay," Sam relents.

"Okay."

"Goodnight, Dean."

"Goodnight, _Sammy_."

And there it was. A step forward.

DSDSDS

Sam's POV

It takes Sam a whole week to figure out they've taken a thousand steps back the moment he climped back into the Impala.

Over the phone? Greatness.

Up close? Yeah, no, not so much.

Except for the basics -where to sleep, what to eat, the current gig and news on Dad- Dean kind of ignores him. It's subtle; and honestly, if you didn't know Dean, you wouldn't notice anything to be off. But, Sam can feel it; this... this _wall_ Dean has built between them.

He doesn't look Sam in the eyes, for starters, always focusing on the point where neck meets shoulder. Whenever possible, they work seperately -"Okay, so, I'll search the warehouse, you'll interview the three witnesses and we're meeting back at the motel in two hours. Got it, Sam?" He doesn't snap at Sam for every little thing; seriously, they _never_ bicker anymore, they're acting like strangers... you know, civil and cordial and curt and so _not_ the way they roll... No "Dude, what are you? A rookie? This salt line has a gap the size of Texas," "Don't go out without packing, Sammy! You're a girl... just match it with your boots or something; The Taurus* can be used as an accessory you know," "Look alive, dammit, this ain't Stanford's oh-so-great campus," "Don't scrab, man! You'll mess up her paint! Do it like the dude in that karate-movie: Wax on-Wax off. No! _No_! You car-wrecking, nerdy-lookin' bastard! Give me the damn rug!" And, the most disturbing of all... Dean keeps calling him "Sam".

Sam's nightmares have return full force; and not all of them are about Jess anymore. There's this particular one, that repeats itself over and over again, where he's on a shore, which doesn't make sense cause Sam hates the sea, what with the kids peeing in it and the sand that manages to stubbornly stick on everything, ew! -and Dean's on this rotten-lookin' boat, leisurely paddling and slipping further and further away from him; and Sam tries to call him back, but his voice isn't working- and then there are huge waves and angry clouds- and suddenly it's all thunders and lightenings and heavy rain- and Dean is drowning- and Sam jumps in the water- but the waves keep tossing him out towards the beach- and oh god, oh god, oh god- Dean, Dean, DEAN!

Sam wakes with a start, hearing the faint reverberations of a hoarse scream in the confines of the dark, impersonal motel room. He's sweating and shaking, yet again. With a faint grunt of disgust at the trickle of perspiration edging down his spine, he shoves the bedspread aside and sucks in a breath of cold air. He runs a hand over his face and, after rubbing the sleep from his eyes, rolls out of bed. The sheets slide with a stubborn sluggishness to the floor as Sam all but shreds out of their tangle and pads swiftly to his duffle, wrenching it open and finding the warmest clothes he has, along with a pair of woolly socks and his favourite hoodie, and then drags himself into the bathroom, to take a much needed shower.

He hasn't slept well since... he doesn't even remember. To be honest, he hasn't been sleeping particularly well after Jessica... yeah. But he had thought it didn't really help being all alone in a strange appartment, no brother or any of his 'Stanford friends' to hang out and take some edge off during the day; it made the nights longer and even more restless. He had thought it would help, being back on the road with Dean. So much for that thought. Now? He doesn't even know if he does sleep at all anymore. Well, he _must_ do, obviously, but it never feels like he has the next day. And then, after a while, everything starts to seem really... unreal. He can hardly even tell if he's awake or asleep except for the fact that when he's awake he doesn't feel so terrified.

The warmth of the water melts away the tension on his shoulders, but not the memory of his dreams, so Sam can't quite fight the glum mood that has settle over him. The sickening feeling, achingly familiar with getting food-poisoning is back, and suddenly the slippery, tiled walls are closing in on him- and he's getting shampoo in his eyes- and he can't breathe- and so he stumbles out of the shower, rubbing his body raw with his towel to get the darkness off.

He needs to get out of here.

He dries his hair as best as he can, shoves on some underwear, his favorite ripped pair of jeans, a t-shirt, his hoodie and his leather jacket, socks and boots; all the while watching Dean snoring peacefully on his queen bed.

Why did he tell Sam to come back?

Was it only to torment him like this?

Sam knows he deserves it; and even so it sucks -and hurts... and sucks some more.

DSDSDS

Dean's POV

Wednesday dawns murky, sad and dark.

Dean blinks the lingering sleepness as he feels his body slowly coming to awakeness. On reflex, he checks Sam's bed, and turns his back to it, once he finds it empty. The relief that floods him, knowing his brother isn't close, is disturbing.

The first few weeks, after Sam had left for Stanford, Dean had spent them in a state of semi-depression; his little brother was constantly on his mind, even the hunts couldn't take priority to that, and Dean had found himself aching and wishing Sam'd get back to him.

And then Sam came, with some exhortation, back to Dean's side. And instead of reveling, Dean feels even worse than before. He doesn't know how to talk to Sam; how to make good on his promise to work things out; he can barely stand to look at him. Sam tries, but it seems inadequate. Dean doesn't ask, but Sam sometimes talks into the silences Dean leaves, stories of how horrible it was at Stanford, of how empty Palo Alto had seemed without Jessica, of how differently his friends had treated him. He even talks, briefly, about how vulnerable and exposed being away from Dean made him feel. Dean isn't sure he believes it, but he knows he wants to believe it, because the soberness with which Sam speaks, his point of view more mature and tranquil than ever before, when he tells Dean's these things, all say that Sam has learned a lot of things about himself ever since he lost Jess.

Dean _wants_ to believe him. He wants to help him, he wants them to find common ground, start from there and build their relationship again...

But, even though he can't pinpoint what it is, something's holding him back.

...

"Okay," Sam says one night, after he and Dean have spent yet another week of avoiding eye contact. "I'm... I'm taking a stand."

He's clearly drunk, which doesn't matter to Dean, because perhaps drunkenness can throw some light into the situation. They've both never been good with words, so perhaps if one them can't quiet control what comes out of his mouth, they can both get some answers. "Okay," he says, a little hopeful.

"I'm tired of the see and wait," Sam slurs.

"Wait and see," Dean corrects, suddenly worried. He doesn't mind Sam talking, has been hoping for just that, but if Sam's too drunk to be articulate, they have a problem. Well, yet another problem.

"Whatever, Mister Bookworm. Sheesh." Sam wavers a little. "Where was I?"

Dean looks around, finds a bottle of whiskey, sits down with it, and settles in for a long night... which ends twenty minutes later, when Sam sort of passes out.

...

Two days after the unfortunate attempt of reconciliation, which resulted into a hell of a hangover for Sam and a whole new and improved round of frustration for Dean... Sam, out of the blue -or smack dab in the middle of the blue, since Dean had been once again not so subtly ignoring him- slaps his palm onto the table they were both sitting -Dean eating and Sam researching.

"Look, Dean, I... I don't what you're playing at, but this isn't _fair_. I- We said we'd work on our issues, but now I'm here and- you don't seem to want me around, so I don't get why were you so persistant-" Sam starts accusing, as if he'd never stop, and Dean loses his appetite rather abruptly.

"Let me guess, you want to leave again... By all means, Sam. You know where the door is; and you've got plenty of practise bailing out on me," Dean laughs hollowly, choking a little to the words he doesn't want to pronounce.

"Why- How can you do this to me?" Sam asks, eyes closing tightly, his voice trembling, "Why are you behaving like such an asshole?"

"How could _you_ do it, Sam? Huh? How can you look someone in the eyes, knowing you share something special together, and then lie to them and run away from them?" Dean blurs out, rage spilling out of his mouth on every letter, feeling heat rising on his cheeks as he stands up, almost knocking over his chair. He needs to pace.

"I said I was sorry!" Sam croaks out, as if he hasn't used his voice in years, dropping his head down, and just barely managing to not bang it against the wooden surface of the table.

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose, desperately trying to remain calm. "No, you didn't. You said you were sorry about the message -which by the way was the one I snapped at, but not the only one that hurt me; you never said you were sorry for leaving."

"I-"

"Don't you dare say you're fuckin' sorry!" Dean threatens, and Sam wisely shuts his mouth.

"I know I hurt you," Sam relents instead, "but you gotta give me another chance; just one last chance -it's all I'm asking."

"I don't know if I _can_, Sam!" Dean yells, as he raises clinched fists in a desperate gesture.

"But why the hell not?" Sam all but screams back, demanding an explanation.

Dean isn't sure how he feels about Sam's nerve to sound assertive, so he resists the urge to growl at him, for now. "Because you keep leaving, Sam. You keep finding excuses to justify being away from me. And I've had it; I won't chain you to my damn car! This is were _you_ got me, so stop trying to blame this on me! This is about you and about the fact that you don't have what it takes to stay here and fight for us! So, _no_, I don't fuckin' know if I can trust you to not hurt me again!" By the end of his speech, Dean's not just yelling, he's screeching.

"I don't even know what that means!" Sam spits back, face red with fury.

"It means I'm done trying! If you don't want to be with me I can't _force_ you!" Dean represses the sad smile that wants to strech his mouth.

"I can't always be with you, Dean! I gotta get my own life someday!" Sam counters, unwilling to back down.

"I know that! I just wanna be a part of it!" Dean snarls, sounding more angry than he meant to.

And then there's quiet, disrupted only by labored breaths, racing hearts and their introversions forever shattered. There's nothing to hide anymore; it's all out in the open... and it's still not enough.

"I thought... looking out for me was just your job; one more thing Dad demanded from you to do," Sam hesitantly says.

"You don't fucking know me at all, do you Sam?" Dean shakes his head, giving away his frustration and disappointment.

"No, shut up," He orders sharply when Sam's mouth opens as if to answer; then, his voice softens a little, "Taking care of you never was what I had to do. It's what I've always _wanted_ to do; And you took that away from me, man... You took away the _only_ thing I've ever cared for." Dean gestures at the space between them and again shakes his head. "I don't know why I bother -obviously I don't mean that much to you," he snorts, the action seeming biased.

"Don't say that! You don't know the half of what you are to me, man," Sam's tone is pleading, but Dean pretends he doen't notice that.

Dean shakes his head, "You're my baby boy... No matter how old you get, you'll always be _my baby boy_," he whispers, a defeated tone, that shouldn't come out Sam's brave brother, colouring his voice, "I know you stopped _needing_ me a long time ago, but I thought you'd never stop _wanting_ me to take care of you," he murmurs tentatively, if not spitefully, vile rising in his mouth and feeling afraid beyond reason that they've finally reached the point of no return; that the bond between them doesn't have the chance of ever be mended again.

"Guess I was wrong," he judges, shakes his head one last time, and heads for the door, dragging his feet like he's so tired he can barely stand.

Just as his hand stretches to reach the knob, Dean lets out a long sigh and, keeping his eyes trained on the wood in front of him, he makes one last attempt to set his brother free. "You can stay, or go -or do whatever the hell you want to. Either way... we're done; _I_'m done."

...

When Dean gets back, after driving for so long he had to refill the Impala's tank twice and his arms felt like they were about to come off, the motel room is dark, quiet and empty. Reflexively, his eyes scan the space next to Sam's bed, half-expecting his duffle to be missing. No, it's still there. His cruel words hadn't driven Sam away.

Dean didn't do it on purpose, he didn't mean to snap at Sam like that; it's just that... when he looks at Sam's face all he can think is: "_Traitor_! You little fuckin' traitor! How could you do that to me _again_? How could you leave me _again_? You bastard! You fucking self-centered bastard!"

Dean knows it's unfair; he knows it doesn't make sense; he knows he's the one who told Sam to go back to Stanford. But, deep down inside, he's accepted that he asked him to leave because he wanted Sam to _refuse_. He wanted Sam to choose to stay with him; just for once in his life, he wanted to feel like Sam's reason to stay put.

But Sam had left him. Again. Sam was all he had in his life, and Dean had lost him. And, now, he doesn't know what to do to win him back. He doesn't know if he even stands a chance; how long before Sam gets tired of hunting and leaves again? Is Dean supposed to just let him come and go as he pleases? And what of Dean's feelings for the matter? Don't they count at all?

And so, he gets mad; he gets so angry with him, that he sees red. Quite literally sees red. And all he wants is to tear Sam apart... and then put him back together; maybe then, Sam will need him to stay whole and will never even think of leaving again.

It's ironic that even though Sam is here, Dean feels more alone than ever.

With a sigh, he gathers clean clothes, his towel and a bar of soap, and sets off to rince his troubles down the shower drain.

It's unacceptable that Dean doesn't hear Sam entering the room and then the bathroom; firstly, he's trained to stay alert at all times, even in the shower when people usually try to relax as much as possible, Dean always helds back just a little bit; after all, one can never be too careful. And secondly, he had his ears perked, ready to listen to the cracking of the old doors that would signal Sam's arrival. Either way... Dean didn't hear a damn thing.

One moment, Dean's rubbing his soap against his washcloth. Next thing he knows, Sam's body pushes his flush against the wet, cold tiles, one gigantic hand folding both of Dean's arms around his back, the other reaching around Dean's chest, finding purchase at the base of his throat.

Dean realizes too late that he should've taken a breath. The... whatever it is, that Sam has tied around his hands is soft, and the body against him familiar; but the single angry blow, that has Sam's hand molding to fit Dean's right shoulder blade, is neither of those. A ring on the gripping hand scrapes the skin over his collarbone. "Breathe," Dean thinks, and this time he manages to, just as what feels like most of his flesh and part of his bones, is suddenly being detached, pulled away, because Sam has ripped his fist back with the same viciousness as he had snapped it forward. Dean makes a sound which is ignored or unheard, because now Sam's knuckles are slamming back onto Dean.

And now Sam's not stopping.

Punctuating each harsh blow with a growled _Hate_._ You_. And it sounds like he means it until it doesn't, and then it becomes _I- Fuck_. _I don't_. But not for long, as Sam shoves and tags -_Stop punishing me, please, I can't take it_- gripping, -_I'll be good, Dean, I promise_- pounding, -_I want my brother back; I need you, Dean, please_- punching into him as though Sam wanted to turn them into one body, one person. The tone of fury begins to leave his scraped voice; words yielding to mangled sounds. The last clear one he hears is _Dee_, muffled against his jaw as the drenched body drapes suddenly, heavily, against him -as close as it can get. It sounds like pure pain. The brunet's head buries itself at the nape of Dean's neck and rubs at him in what seems like anguish. _Sammy_. He wishes he could reach up, stroke it, turn softly toward the wet cheeks, caress the clenching jaw, but he can't, not with Sam's weight on him, and now not without it, because he's pulled away, back to holding Dean at arms length which is too far away to reach. The grip of the fingertips under Dean's clavicle is still firm, but the other hand is sliding now like something sea-tossed around his chest. The pull is just as powerful but no longer brutal. Sam's steadily dissolving, and the gears are spinning in Dean's mind, something's moving to a direction he'd never allowed himself to go to, a puzzle is becoming clearer the deeper he falls into the place Sam's taking them.

The thoughts are both sharp and blurry, and how something can be both hazy and painfully clear all at the same time he's not sure, but it is, and Dean sees it, feels it burning through his skin, pooling deep inside him, in his gut, in his chest, at the base of his spinal column; and he doesn't know how to react to it, so at the moment it's just a pathetic attempt to reciprocate the blows, which is impossible with his hands still trapped, and Sammy's name, dragged painfully out of his raw throat, and then it's _Fuck_ and _I Know_ and _I Hate Myself Too_- and the realization becomes a bright flare under Dean's eyelids, a flash like a distant lightning, white and jagged through the clouds, when he gives up trying to punch Sam back, his hands land on the wet tiles of the shower stall between them, and the brothers stay; resting against each other, their chests heaving.

Dean can see it, this _thing_ between them, he understands, finally, what it is, and he wants to say it but behind him Sam's not just sobbing but howling, as if in terrible pain -nothing muffled or muted, a series of sheer, open-throated cries and his voice miraculously doesn't waver as he orders Dean to _Shut Up_, when he tries to whisper it, fingernails buried in skin, Sam's whole being trying to crawl in Dean- and Dean only just manages to stammer it out, pushing it between his lips with the last shred of his strength a split second before it's all too much, contractions seize him and his pulses drop so low he almost collides with the floor.

_Love You_. _Gotta Make It_. _It's _Us.

Certain that Sam hasn't heard him in the chaos, he yields to the cutting agony of fatigue in the muscles of his arms, lets himself go to collapse forward, tile and water be damned. He registers the expected hover before he does the hand that's caught him, the calloused fingers gently cutting his hands free... and now, splayed against his sternum, lifting him back against gravity, back towards Sam, where he lands; toned back to chiseled chest, gasping as Sam's hands have gone from punishing to tender in less than ten seconds, as he rubs to help Dean's blood circulation come back to normal. Equal parts of pain and pleasure. For the first time in his life, the phrase makes sense to Dean.

As Dean collapses dazed against the warm body behind him, he's certain of only two things:

His wet hair dripping cool water on his inflamed face feels brilliant.

And, he never wants to be anywhere but here ever again.

Dropping his head exhausted back against the lean chest, he shivers with a tiny thrill at the sight of his brother's leather wristband against his thigh where Sam's arm is resting, palm up, damp and tranquil. Moving to entwin his nub fingers with equally wet and cold ones, Dean catches a glimpse of a thin red mark of rawness, where the worn edge of the wristband has been rubbed harshly against Sam's bare skin, and instead reaches to unclasp the buckle that holds it on.

He thinks wryly how helpful it would have been if they'd been wearing protective gear all these years; like they did back in the days when Dad was training them and they'd practise against each other almost every day. All those blows wouldn't have hurt so much. Or caused so much damage.

And they had wounded each other; over and over again -almost gleefully. How could whatever this is possibly work? And what the fucking hell is it, anyway? It'd seemed clear enough to Dean a moment ago, but now it's all muddled together, anger and shame and this... this new feeling that makes him want to stay- and run his fingertip over the delicate curve of Sam's mouth; watch a relaxed smile bloom there under his touch. His constant. His love. Dean doesn't know which frightens him more, but he does know, with as gutting certainty as he always had, that he _can't_ be without him. But he might have to; because how could they possibly-

Focused on the sudden ache in his chest, Dean fails to notice how audible the anxious sigh that escapes him is. Doesn't fail to notice the intimate sensation of Sam's ribcage expanding gently on an inhale against his back as he whispers softly -somewhat tenderly, Dean realizes with a start, "Are you okay, Dee?"

The sheer- Oh. It's, damn, it's love in the voice. Along with a quiet acknowledgment of everything; apologies... forgiveness... The offering of something. It's like a benediction, and Dean's throat closes sharply. He wants to laugh with relief at the complete transformation of the previously raging man; wants to punch Sam for the attitude; wants to run away from what this new thing between them makes him feel; wants to run toward it...

Clogged on emotion, Dean can't reply, and a thread of fear creeps up his spine. He imagines malice rising in the Eucalyptus Green eyes, spite poisoning the gentle mouth as Dean's bumbling silence is interpreted as rejection. Out of habit, he tenses in the wait of Sam's reaction, pulling away just a fraction and stiffening in the well-defined arms, steeling himself for the next battle in their never-ending war, but it doesn't come, not this time. Sam just pulls him closer, settling his hand gently over Dean's fidgeting fingers and rubbing them until they've stopped.

And Dean all but falls into him, molding himself along Sam's body lines; which are solid- and here- and burning- and _SammySammySammy_- and Not. Leaving.

"Don't worry," Sam murmurs, wet lips against wet hair. "It's _us_."

* * *

><p>*TAURUS Model 92 9mm, standard with a 10-round magazine; It's occasionally used by Dean, but by the second season it seems to be predominantly carried by Sam.<p>

**A/N:** I swear on my quill (and yeah, I actually have one or two -or ten-), hardest thing I've ever written.


End file.
